


november, as i remember it

by elz_delz



Series: we've got months (years) to love each other [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amputation, Angst, Blood and Gore, Eventual Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Period Typical Attitudes, Pining, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Recovery, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, as i projected my own issues upon it, im not kidding, im sorry lmao, please pay attention to the tags, self-amputation, this is my emotional support fanfiction, which got darker and darker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:34:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27043558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elz_delz/pseuds/elz_delz
Summary: November, 1963: President John F. Kennedy is assassinated in Dallas, Texas. The Winter Soldier leaves the city but never returns to base.Also November, 1963: Steve Rogers finds a shirtless, armless man unconscious on a lonely Tennessee road and decides to take him along for the ride of a lifetime.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------AKA: The 60's Shrinkyclinks travelling theatre AU that literally no one asked for but I wrote anyway.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: we've got months (years) to love each other [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1973776
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Cruising Kids](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1996608) by [SkyisGray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyisGray/pseuds/SkyisGray). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! I read Cruising Kids and went 'what I need is more 60s stucky, more specifically shrinkyclinks, and I need it NOW' so I wrote this monstrosity. The 'Inspired by' is mostly just for the vibes, the works aren't really all that similar but sir, that is my emotional support fanfiction. Literally, only the time period is the same but it did technically inspire me so xoxo, go check that out if you haven't already!
> 
> I've planned out ten chapters and have written six, but that might change depending how much my dumbass brain decides to deviate from the plot I've set out. I'll be updating once a week until the completion of the fic.
> 
> Go to the notes at the end of the chapter for TRIGGER WARNINGS please! I wouldn't want anyone to read something that could cause an unwelcome reaction. Take care of yourselves, darlings xx

He wakes quicker than usual. The Asset doesn't remember much but he remembers the ice, how it bites and claws at every cell as his mind slowly blinks back online. He can't scream- his jaw is still frozen shut- but that doesn't mean he doesn't try. The ice splinters and cracks as his muscles tense up with the pain of waking.

When they drag him out of the cryo chamber, still stiff with the cold, he notices that his handlers are speaking English. Not Russian or German like they usually do. It's a strange language, softer than what he's used to hearing, and there's something about it that makes the back of his mind itch uncomfortably. The Asset decides to tune out their words; it's not like they ever really speak to him, anyway. They give him his tac gear, watching as he mechanically puts it on, and lead him to a white van with words he doesn't bother to read on its side. Their rifles are trained on him the entire time. 

Once they're moving, they brief him. It takes a minute for the Asset to push through the fog of waking, though the mission isn't complex enough for him to be worried about it. They want a clean, simple kill. A shot through the head as the mission drives past.

They take him to a place called Dallas and set him up in the fourth floor of an empty office building. Two of his handlers stay with him while the other two wait in the van. 

From the window, the Asset has a good view of the road. The pavements bordering it are sparsely lined with civilians, even at so early an hour. The Asset's eyes linger on them for a minute, a wave of intense feeling coursing through him as he does. He tells himself he's just calculating variables, figuring out how long he's been kept in the ice for. He's snapped out of it by one of his handlers kicking a long black case towards him.

"New model. Think you can handle it?" his handler asks. The Asset nods tersely in response; he learns quick.

It takes him only a minute to figure out the discrepancies between the new rifle and his old one. It takes him less than that to put it together and prop it up where he wants. Then, it's just a matter of waiting. He watches as the streets fill, enough to muddle his head with the overwhelming chatter of civilians. The sun gets higher in the sky until it hangs directly overhead. The Asset knows it can't have been more than six hours since they arrived, but somehow he feels on the verge of malfunctioning.

He hears the car before he sees it. The gentle hum of an engine, almost lost in the cacophony of cheers coming from the street, rings unnaturally loud in his head. He shifts slightly, working out the kinks in his muscles, before focusing down the scope of his rifle once more.

It takes two shots to kill the man in the car. The first goes too low. The second hits dead centre. The Asset's eyes stay stuck on the red of his blood, how it splattered against the seat of the car and the woman sitting next to him. 

A hand clamps down on his shoulder. The Asset doesn't so much as flinch, instead taking this as his cue to disassemble his weapon and put it back into the case it came from. 

"What a fucking monster, huh? You see how he just-" The handler makes exaggerated 'pew pew' noises. 

"'s why they keep 'im in the deep freeze all the time," the other one says. There's something about the rise and fall of his voice, the way his mouth shapes and spits out each word, that feels uncomfortably familiar to the Asset. "Otherwise he'd go fuckin' psycho on all of us. Fuckin' pump us full o' lead 'fore we have the chance to fry him."

"You ever seen them do it? Fry him, I mean."

A pause. The Asset's still packing up, perhaps taking a little more time than he should. For some reason, he can't help but listen in.

"Once. Gave me nightmares for weeks." 

The Asset shuts the case. "Mission complete. Are we returning to base now?" he asks. He ignores the way one of his handlers jumps at the sound of his voice. 

"Yes. Good job, Soldier."

They make their way downstairs in single-file, the Asset in between the handlers. The van is waiting for them in the same spot, half-hidden behind a dumpster. Even when they sit, as they get further from Dallas, the Asset doesn't allow himself to relax. He sits straight and stiff on the narrow metal bench, eyes resolutely trained on his boots. 

They're about halfway back to base when the van is hit. It comes from beneath them, a colossal boom that throws the van up into the air. The Asset manages to grab hold of the bench he was sat on, keeping him in place as the van rolls and crashes back into the ground. When the wrecked van shrieks to a stop, the Asset sees that his handlers haven't been quite so lucky. The three in the back with him are all dead, limbs bent and broken, skulls cracked open and spilling pink and red onto the floor. 

The Asset stumbles to his feet, ignoring the sharp ache of broken bones as he limps towards the door. They're too dented to open using the handle, so he resorts to kicking them in. All the while, he's got his left arm tucked against his body, the pain too much for even him to push through. His other hand roams the straps and buckles on his tac suit, making sure he's got enough firepower to get his way out of whatever trap they drove into. He counts two pre-loaded guns, six spare magazines, and seven knives of varying size and style. 

They chose a good spot for the ambush, the Asset vaguely thinks. It's an abandoned stretch of road flanked on either side by flat dirt: nowhere to hide. In the dim moonlight, it looks almost like an alien planet. The Asset remembers the books he used to-

He shakes his head of the foreign thought. It scares him a little, just like the Chair or the ice scares him.

The first of the attackers are dead before they can even raise their guns. The Asset moves on before they even hit the ground, the gun in his hand four bullets emptier. He easily spots the truck they arrived in; it's the only other thing on the road apart from the flaming wreck behind him. It's a brutal looking thing, heavily armoured, the windows blacked out and what looks like a machine gun perched on top. Bucky aims for the person in black manning it, sending them tumbling over the side of the truck. He doesn't know how many more attackers are hidden inside; not enough to take him down, even with one arm out of commission, but the Asset doesn't need to make a bigger mess. His handlers have always told him to be a ghost, to flit in and out of missions unseen. 

The Asset weighs the possibilities: stay and fight or return to base.

He sees more agents jump out of the truck, watches as they begin to spread out around the area. 

The Asset runs. He finds an opening between two agents and sprints through them, too fast for them to follow. He feels the ground shudder as bullets embed themselves just inches behind him. With each step, another stab of shocking pain reverberates up his left arm. It keeps him focused, despite the blood steadily weeping from the deep lacerations all over his body. He empties his gun behind him as he runs, hearing at least two agents go down.

He risks a quick glance behind his shoulder, making sure that no one's tailing him. He's far enough away that the agents on the road look like ants. The chances that any of them could land a shot from where they are are-

Acting purely on instinct, the Asset raises his left arm up to block whatever it was flying towards him. He lets loose a roar of pain as the arrow- the _arrow?-_ struck his bicep. He looks up to see a man with glinting metal wings holding another man in garish purple, holding the bow that presumably hit the Asset, up in the sky. They hightail it back to the road before the Asset can pull his second gun out from its holster.

He yanks the arrow out as he runs, tossing it aside before it can do anything more than irritate him. 

★ - ✪ - ★

The arrow, it turns out, was designed to do more than just irritate him.

By the time the sun's risen, the Asset's cuts have all healed- with the exception of the one on his bicep, which has started to swell and turn a violent green-black colour. The veins running up and down his arms have darkened as well. He knows it's strange; he can't get infections or diseases thanks to the enhancements HYDRA has given him over the years. He finds an abandoned, run-down farm to hide in until he can figure out what to do next.

Sitting in the back corner of the barn, the Asset slowly tugs off the top of his tac gear. He uses only his right arm, the left refusing to do anything but hang there limply, shrieking with pain any time he tries to coax it into moving.

A white fabric square printed with a list of addresses has been sewn onto the inside of his gear: HYDRA bases he should report to in the case of a mission failure or malfunction. It would help, he thinks, if he had any idea where he was at the minute. He's not sure how far he can travel with his arm in the state that it is; on previous missions, his enhancements had taken care of any injuries before they could affect his performance.

The Asset takes another look at the wound. It's spreading, almost reaching the top of his shoulder now, and it doesn't show any signs of stopping. 

With a shaky hand, the Asset pulls a knife from his discarded tac gear. He cuts a strip of fabric off from the bottom of his undershirt and ties it tight at the top of his arm. He sets the edge of the blade just under it, gritting his teeth against the pain to come. His first few slices are steady, though they soon turn shaky and jagged as he forces his hand to _keep moving, keep cutting, get it off, get it off, get it off._ It gets harder to keep ahold of the knife as he cuts, the blood spurting from his half-amputated arm slicking up the handle of it. By the end, the knuckles of his right hand are white with the effort of holding onto it, as well as to stave off the pain. He gasps in relief as his blackened arm falls to the ground, separated from the rest of him.

He wonders if it'll grow back. He's lost fingers and toes before to the biting cold of Siberia, and they'd all grown back within a couple of weeks. He's not sure about an entire arm, though.

The Asset allows himself to rest for a while. Just a while, he tells himself, though when his eyes open again it's almost morning again. An entire day had passed, filled with dreams of cold and needles and darkness. He looks to his left, down at his arm on the ground and the stump where it used to sit. He's stopped bleeding, at least. New skin, raw and pink, had grown over the bleeding surface of it. Gingerly, he pokes at it, hissing and pulling back when a jolt of unexpectedly intense pain shoots right into his chest. 

He looks around at his dismembered arm and blood-soaked tac gear and wonders what to do with them. It's not like he can carry them back with him to base. The Asset looks around for a shovel. He finds a slightly rusty, crooked one outside.

He spends longer than he wants digging, the task infuriatingly difficult with only one arm. The hole is about two feet deep when he decides he's done, a concession he only allows himself because the chances of anyone coming across the barn seem infinitesimally tiny. He unceremoniously dumps his arm, bloodied gear and shirt into the pit, along with his makeshift tourniquet, before covering it all up again with dirt. He keeps only a few of his weapons, the ones small enough to tuck into his boots and the hidden pockets of his pants, and the square of fabric with the addresses on it. This, he tucks under his foot so that it has no chance of blowing away.

The Asset decides to follow the road, keeping an ear out for anything that might be coming his way. It's hard going; though the air carries a slight breeze, the sun is relentless. It seems to wick away all the moisture in the Asset's body, leaving him panting and wheezing by the time the sun reaches its peak. He thinks maybe it's his arm- or lack thereof- sapping his energy away faster than he's used to.

As he watches the sun dip below the horizon, he wonders if it would be so bad to lie down right there in the middle of the road and go to sleep. Maybe he wouldn't wake up. He hopes- that word, _hope,_ tastes bitter on his tongue- that he doesn't. He's so sick of the blood, of the pain. He can still smell it, though his nose burns with every dry drag of air he takes in. It's soaked into his shirt, his hair, his skin.

 _No more chair,_ he thinks as he sinks to his knees.

 _No more ice,_ as he closes his eyes.

 _No more Asset,_ as his world goes blissfully blank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings:  
> \- Graphic depictions of people being shot/killed  
> \- Bucky amputates his own arm  
> \- Bucky has suicidal thoughts/ideation
> 
> I'll see you tomorrow for another chapter :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter! I'm really rockin' this whole schedule thing.
> 
> As before, see the end notes for any possible triggers. Take care of yourselves, darlings xx

He wakes in a van that smells of salt and something green. His head is resting on something soft- so much softer than he's used to- and he hears the sound of crackling music and gentle chatter. He's got a shirt on now, though it's uncomfortably tight.

The Asset sits up too quickly, a move that has his head spinning. He tries sticking out an arm to steady himself, forgetting that he'd cut it off just hours, maybe even days, earlier. He finds himself falling to the floor of the van with a heavy 'oomph'.

"Hey, hey, hey, why don't you take it easy, pal," a deep, soothing voice tells him. Hands, gentler than he's used to, help push him upright. He tenses up underneath them, trying his best to back away but only succeeding in hitting the wall of the van. He keeps his eyes screwed shut, face turned away from where the man who'd spoken stands.

"How'd you find me?" the Asset asks quietly.

The man- his new handler?- snorts. It confuses the Asset. What part of his question was funny?

"Wasn't like we were looking for you, pal. Nearly ran over you, if I'm gonna be completely honest," his handler tells him. "You were lying there, half-naked in the middle of the road. Couldn't just leave you behind, my ma would kill me if I did."

He's got that same, odd way of talking that his previous handler had, all broad vowels and drawn out sounds. It was a little softer, less noticeable, but it still made the Asset's mind burn with the need to remember.

"Your voice. Your..." He searches his mind for the right word. "Your accent. It sounds familiar."

"Really? You from New York?"

The Asset shakes his head. "I- I don't know. I think... maybe?"

"You don't remember?"

The Asset's eyes snap open and he shoots a glare at his handler before he can stop himself. Something hot and howling rises up in his chest, an emotion he can't name. He's never had handlers like this before, handlers who acted like... like...

Like a friend. 

He can bear it when they're unrepentantly cruel, when all they have to offer are beatings and torture. He doesn't know if he can bear kindness, only to have it used against him.

He's about to snap out a defence when he realises what he'd done. He ducks his head down and mumbles an apology.

"It's alright," his handler tells him, unbearably kind and patient. "Nothing to be sorry about. Except, maybe the fact that you can't seem to stand lookin' at me. I'll admit, I'm not exactly the best-looking fella out there, but it can't be that bad, can it?"

An order. Wrapped up in too many words, and given too softly, but it's an order. If there's one thing the Asset is good at, it's following them. He looks up slowly, eyes glued to the single hand now resting on his lap until he can't keep them there any longer.

 _God, he's pretty,_ is the first thing the Asset thinks when he sees him. The first thing that he notices is his eyes: bright, clear blue that look out at him from behind thick-lensed, square glasses. They're filled with a sort of friendly gentleness he's never seen before. It makes him think that maybe, whoever he is, he's not HYDRA.

A full-bellied, loud cackle erupts from the front of the van. The driver, a dark-skinned man, is slapping his hand against the steering wheel. He's got his head turned to look into the back of the van, a grin on his face. "D'ya hear that, Steve?" he manages to wheeze in-between laughs. " _'Pretty'!"_

He realises then that he'd spoken aloud. The Asset feels shame begin to flood his body. He knows there's something wrong about what he just said, that he shouldn't be calling a man, no matter how small and delicate-looking they are, _pretty._

"I'm sorry," he splutters. "I- I didn't mean to- I mean, I- I didn't mean it." He feels hotter than normal, like he's just sprinted ten miles. 

His handler looks at him with a strange glint in his eyes. There's a flush sitting on his cheeks that makes the Asset's skin squirm in an oddly good way. 

"It's fine," he says. Then, a little quieter, "I wouldn't have minded if you did."

The man in the front is still laughing a little, though he's keeping up his light-hearted chatter. It sets the Asset at ease a little. "-never lets _anyone_ call him 'pretty'," he's saying. "I once saw him try and beat a guy up because of it once."

"'Try', Sam, really?" his handler- _Steve,_ his name is Steve- retorts. "I didn't 'try' anything, I _did_ beat him up, birdbrain."

"Oh, of course, of course. My bad."

Steve- _his name is Steve-_ turns back to look at the Asset, a small smile on his bitten-red lips. "So... you got a name I can call you? Can't just keep calling you 'pal' forever."

The Asset is about to tell Steve that he doesn't have a name, that weapons don't need them, when a voice from the back of his head tells him, _Bucky._

"My, uhh, my name's Bucky," he manages to stutter out. It feels right on his tongue, somehow, like something lost come home again. He says it again, a little more confidently. "My name's Bucky."

He doesn't miss the way Steve's eyebrows rise almost all the way up to his hairline. "That a nickname or something?" he asks. "I don't know many people who'd name their kid 'Bucky'."

"Probably. I don't remember," the Asset says, bitter disappointment flooding the back of his throat. 

Steve gives him a sad little look. "I'm sorry, Bucky. The war must've done a real number on you."

"War?" the Asset asks. He doesn't remember a war, not really, but there's a loose niggling in his head that tells him that he might one day.

"You're a soldier, aren't you? Isn't that how you lost your arm?" 

Sometimes, they called him the Winter Soldier. The Asset- _Bucky,_ he reminds himself- nods. "I was a soldier," he tells Steve.

Steve smiles grimly and claps Bucky on the shoulder, the one with the arm still connected to it. "Thank you for your service," he says, voice solemn. "I wanted to join up, actually, follow in my dad's footsteps, but they took one look at me and sent me packing. Of course, that was before I realised how goddamned corrupt those sons-of-bitches are. They send men off to war in places they have no business bein' and let 'em rot when they come back home. Fuckin' disgraceful, if you ask me. A waste of life, a waste of money. What they're doing in Vietnam is damn awful. You were in 'Nam, right? That how you lost your arm?"

They sent him to Vietnam once. It was 1957, he thinks, though he's forgotten the name of the man he killed. 

"Yeah, I was in 'Nam."

"So how'd you get from Vietnam to the middle of Bumfuck, Tennessee?" Sam asks, glancing over his shoulder. His red-tinted sunglasses reflect the sun, giving him a slightly unnerving, blank-eyed look.

" _Sam,_ " Steve chides. "You don't have to tell him, Buck, not if you don't want to. All that matters is that you're safe and out of harm's way. You were real dehydrated when we picked you up, could've almost died if we found you even an hour later. You got anywhere we can drop you off once we get back to civilisation? I wouldn't feel comfortable just lettin' you wander off after what you've been through."

Bucky's foot curls up in his boot, feeling the wad of fabric tucked under it. He's got them all memorised by now, has no excuse not to tell them where to drop him off. He's HYDRA's weapon, their iron fist meant to help them shape the century. That's what they tell him. 

"I-" he starts, but he finds himself getting caught on the rest of the words. So he settles on, "I can't remember."

"That's alright, Bucky. Maybe you can stay with us for a little while, then. That alright with you, Sam?"

Sam waves a hand lazily in reply. "Whatever, man. Just make sure you're not dead weight."

Steve beams at Bucky. "You'll have lots to do, trust me. Sam's just hungry."

"It's not my fault we had to stop for two hours to play nurse to a buff, shirtless vagrant, Rogers!"

"Ignore him," Steve tells Bucky, rolling his eyes. "We're part of Shield, a travelling theatre. You like that kind of stuff? Plays, movies, whatever."

Bucky nods, a little unsure. "The movies, I think. Never had much opportunity to go watch a proper play."

At this, Steve perks up. "See, that's what we're all about; bringing theatre to the masses. People always think it's for rich folks, but it's for whoever's there to appreciate the art of it, you get me? I'm not really an actor, though, more of a behind the scenes guy- I do the make-up and set design, mainly, sometimes some first-aid if we need it- but I just love how it brings everyone together. Black, white, rich, poor. It doesn't matter when you're up on a stage."

Bucky studies the way Steve's eyes seem to glow as he talks and gets more excited. They didn't let the Asset feel anything but pain, so when he sees the happiness light Steve up from the inside, he can't help but want to feel it too.

"That sounds... amazing," Bucky says, and he thinks it's the truth. "I don't know how much I can do with only one arm, but-"

"Don't worry about it. There's a place for everyone."

★ - ✪ - ★

Shield, Steve explains to Bucky as they drive out of Tennessee and up into Kentucky, tours in six-month seasons. The spring-summer tour takes the northern states, while the autumn-winter tour moves through the south, from Los Angeles to Virginia. "We've only got four more states to go: the Virginias and Carolinas," he tells Bucky as they chow down on gas station snacks. Bucky, used to liquid calories and IV nutrition, has to throw up after eating too much of it. They have to make a stop for half an hour, Sam holding back his hair and Steve rubbing his back sympathetically. 

They reach the first stop in South Carolina, which isn't much more than an empty field at this point. There are vans, much like Sam and Steve's, though in a rainbow of different colours, parked all over the field. Some are open, with people sitting in the back, while others are closed. Bucky doesn't think he's ever seen so much colour or been so close to so much life. It's overwhelming, at first, and he has to steel himself against it before stepping out of the van after Steve. He watches as he and Sam collide with a small, red-haired woman, all three of them hugging each other tightly. 

_(Steve introduces her later as Natasha. When he tries speaking to her in Russian, she raises an elegant brow and replies in perfect, crisp American English, "I don't speak Italian.")_

Shield is led by a frazzle-haired old man whose real name is Abraham Erskine, but everyone just calls 'Abe'. He pulls Bucky aside when they arrive, a warm smile on his face.

"So," he says. "You're the stray."

His accent is heavy, and it sets Bucky's mind alight with fear and panic. He thinks of HYDRA, of how he looked at Steve and thought there was no way he could be one of them. Maybe that was what they wanted. They wanted him docile and calm. They wanted to watch as the Winter Soldier, the Asset, walked right back into their hands because someone patted his back and told him he was worth more than blood and violence.

Maybe Abe sees the way Bucky's body shakes, notices the way his eyes fall to his shoes. If he does, he doesn't let on. Instead, he just leads them to his office- which is really just a bunch of crates stacked behind a tent- and pulls a bottle and a couple of glasses out from one of them. He pours a generous amount into each glass and hands one to Bucky. He takes it, but he doesn't drink.

Bucky doesn't dare speak. He studies Abe, tries to find some sign of deceit in his brown, bespectacled eyes.

"This is from Augsburg. My city. So many people forget that the first country that the Nazi’s invaded was their own. You know, after the last war, my people struggled. They felt weak. They felt small. And then Hitler comes along with the marching and the big show and the flags and the… and the…" He waves his hand vaguely. "And he hears of me, my work and he finds me. And he says, 'You.' He says, 'You will make us strong.' Well, I am not interested.

"I left Germany two weeks after that. I left everything behind; my research, my life. All I took with me was my family. That was all I needed. When I came to America, I couldn't step into a laboratory without feeling... dirty. In another life, another universe, I am sure that my work would have been used to do terrible, terrible things. So I turned to theatre. It seems odd, maybe, such a drastic career change, but I must say, fleeing one's home does tend to give you a sense of the dramatic."

He chuckles into his glass, taking a long draw of it. "I know what it's like to be scared, Bucky. Scared of other people, or even of myself. But I want you to know that this place, Shield, is a safe space for you. You will not come to any harm so long as I have any say in it."

Bucky thinks long and hard for a while. Then, hand shaking only a little, he brings the glass of schnapps up to his lips and takes a small sip. 

Abe grins at him. "I think you will do brilliantly with us, Bucky. Maybe not so much _during_ the show, on account of the-" He mimes mini-explosions around his head. "-but you look like a strong fellow, despite your... well. Thor used to help us with the moving and setting up and such, but he got married a few months ago. Met a lovely scientist in New Mexico and decided that he just couldn't do without her."

Bucky hears soft footsteps approaching. He whips his head in their direction, hackles raised, body poised for action, and only relaxes once he realises it's Steve.

Steve pops his head around the side of the tent, soft blonde hair falling into his face. "Hey, Abe," he greets. A little quieter, he adds, "And Bucky."

Abe's eyes flash between the two of them. "Steven," he says. "You have been looking for someone to help you with the setting up, yes?"

"Oh, uh, yeah. Yup. Only if it's not any trouble," he says quickly, all the words strung together. 

"No trouble at all, Steven." He cocks his head towards Bucky. "This young man over here is our new Thor," Abe says. "I am confident that he will be a wonderful new addition to your team."

"But what about his-" Steve gestures towards his left shoulder. He looks to Bucky. "Your arm, are you sure you'll be fine carrying things without it?."

Abe raises a brow. "Have a little faith in your new friend, Steven. I am sure he can handle it. Yes?" He looks to Bucky for an answer.

Bucky nods once. "I can handle it."

He once stopped a moving car with just one hand. He can handle a few boxes. Seeing Steve worrying over it, however, stops him from saying anything more. He kind of... likes it.

The thought fills him with guilt. He shouldn't feel like that about Steve. Not even just Steve- _anyone._ If they knew what he's done, who he's killed, they'd send him away. 

Maybe he should tell them. He _should_ tell them. Even missing an arm, he could kill them all in less than a minute. 

It's dangerous, being around them. He's a weapon, an iron fist meant to help HYDRA shape the century. That's what he's been _told_ , that's what he _is_. 

If HYDRA comes after him, if- _when_ \- they come to take him back, they'll kill everyone here. They'll make Bucky- _the Asset, not Bucky, what use does he have for a name, weapons don't need names, names are for people, not killers, not monsters, not rabid, empty beasts-_ kill them himself, give him a gun or a knife and tell him to water the field with their blood, burn down their tents, turn everything to white ash, cover the ground with it because he is the _Winter Soldier,_ and wherever he goes, the snow must follow. 

He feels something settle on his leg, a slender, gentle hand. Steve's hand. Bucky looks up into Steve's worried blue eyes.

"You alright, Buck?" he asks. "You went away for a little bit."

And Bucky doesn't know what God he should pray to, what God he prayed to before he lost himself and became the Asset, but even They couldn't stop him from reaching for Steven Goddamn Rogers despite everything. And maybe it's selfish, but why should he care?

"I'm fine," he says stiffly. He tries to smile, not sure if it works. But it must look alright because Steve smiles brightly back.

"Great! So... Abe, can I take him off your hands? Show him around, give him the run-down?"

"Whatever you see fit, Steven," Abe replies. "Just be sure to keep safe and tell me if anything is amiss, yes?"

Steve shoots him a mock salute, the grin still wide and brilliant on his face. He then gestures for Bucky to follow him. 

"The first show's tomorrow," Steve tells him as they walk through the now mostly erect tents. "We've got to stick to a tight schedule, seeing as though we have to move around so much. Twenty-five states in six months averages out to about one a week, and we make two stops in each state. Thor and I used to be a great team- don't get me wrong, I'm happy for him, Jane's an amazing woman from what I've seen- but I've been struggling with doing everything by myself. Sure, I can get a few people to help me out every now and then, but that isn't exactly fair to them, making them work more than they signed up for."

Steve stops to take a breath, his face practically purple. "Oh, geez," he laughs. "You gotta tell me when I'm talking too much, Bucky. It ain't good for my lungs- or for your sanity if we're bein' honest."

"I don't mind," Bucky mumbles. "I- I think it's great when you do it. Just... talk a lot. Means you care."

Steve laughs. "Wish you could tell my ma that. She didn't see it that way most of the time, probably 'cause I did it during dinnertime. Said they could power all o' Brooklyn if they hooked the power grid up to my mouth, seeing as it ran like a hundred horses all the fuckin' time."

"So tell me what you need help with," Bucky says. "I wanna be helpful, seeing as you saved my life back in Tennessee."

 _In more ways than one,_ he can't help but add silently.

"Well, we've got to set up the stage, first," Steve says. "That's what I'm in charge of, mainly."

Steve leads him to the main stage area, which is just an empty, flat plot of land at the bottom of the field. He points at the van they'd arrived in earlier that day and explains how most of the backdrops are tucked away in there. They spend the next few hours unloading, Steve marvelling at how many things he could carry at once- _"Even Thor could only carry six at a time- with_ two _hands!"-_ and Bucky can't help but preen a little. It's nice to be able to use his body in a way that made people happy.

They set up the tarp canopy first, just in case it rains later in the night. Bucky tries to point out that there aren't even any clouds in the sky, which Steve replies to with a dangerous look and an ominous, "Don't jinx it."

The day passes like that, with Bucky doing most of the heavy lifting and Steve trailing behind him, chattering incessantly about the logistics of the theatre, this year's repertoire, funny stories about the rest of the cast and crew. Sometimes he tries to help, waddling red-faced with a too-big box in his arms before Bucky takes it from him. 

It's well dark by the time they're done for the day, most of the set-up set up. Bucky's body is comfortably loose, grateful for the gentle exercise of it. Steve, on the other hand, is complaining about his back.

"God, it fuckin' hurts," he moans, rubbing it dramatically.

"It's what you get for trying to lift shit you shouldn't have been liftin', you punk," Bucky tells him.

"Jerk," Steve shoots back, though it lacks the venom it needs to sting.

It's terrifying how comfortable he's gotten around Steve; it's been two days since they met, and yet it feels like they've known each other their entire lives. Around him, Bucky feels like he can shed the HYDRA-suit he's been kept in for so many years. Instead of feeling vulnerable or exposed, he feels safe. He knows Steve isn't the sort to use people, to take advantage of anyone. He just radiates a sort of undeniable goodness and honesty that Bucky's never seen before.

They sit together for dinner, cross-legged on the grass at the edge of the field. Bucky tries to get them to sit a little closer to the bonfire- the tips of Steve's ears and his lips are getting kind of purple, not that he's looking- but Steve tells him it's fine. He knows it's because the fire spits and cracks, and that Bucky probably can't stand the noise. He hasn't gotten around to testing that out yet.

( _"Abe said it's normal for soldiers to be afraid of those kinds of sounds," he'd tell Bucky much, much later. "Doesn't mean there's anything wrong with 'em, just means they've been through Hell and come out the other side.")_

Their portions are the same, despite their size difference. Neither of them has forgotten the Incident on the van. 

Something hits Bucky with his first bite of the stew. He freezes, spoon still sticking out of his mouth. 

"Buck," Steve asks. "What's the matter?"

A wave of memories crashes into Bucky. He can feel his eyes watering, burning with emotions he can now put names to.

"My ma," he manages to choke out. He's bombarded with memories of a soft, brown-haired, grey-eyed woman. His mama, stirring a pot of stew at the stove, hair kept back with one of his dad's ties. His mama, writing letters to her sister in Indiana, his aunts. His mama, dancing with him as the radio blared Bing Crosby or Ethel Waters. His mama, straightening out their clothes before church, his and his sisters'. 

"Whaddya remember, Buck?" Steve asks softly.

"I-She- I look like her," he laughs. "Same hair, same eyes. All of us do, me 'n my sisters. Folks used to joke that she didn't need my dad at all because of that, and she'd just get this look in her eye and tell them, 'Don't need him, but dear God do I want him.' Used to crack everyone up. Used to crack _me_ up until I was old enough to realise what the hell she meant by it." He doesn't quite manage a grimace, still too caught up in the memory of his family to be all that disgusted. 

"That's great, Buck," Steve says, reaching over to grab Bucky's hand. "I'm glad you remembered them. Gives you something to fight for."

Bucky nods. "Who made the stew?" he asks quietly, ducking his head to hide the reddening of his cheeks.

"Wanda," Steve replies. "Girl in the red, our resident light op. Why?"

"Wanna go say thanks," he mumbles.

It takes all his conviction to be able to go up to Wanda, a small, wide-eyed girl with a thick Sokovian accent, and tell her, "Thank you for the stew." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings:  
> \- Minor mentions of Bucky's past abuse at the hands of HYDRA


End file.
